heart rate of mouse
by astudyinchuck
Summary: Flynn gets called on by an old friend in an hour of need. Talbot/Flynn


He is an American. It seems only fair to shoot him.

Flynn has already cracked him across the nose with the butt of his gun, in a mild panic, which isn't something a marksman of his calibre does, anyhow, panic or brawl. In hot, tenacious pursuit, here he is, a church somewhere in the wrong side of Hammersmith bumping off some yank for much less than deserved. Flynn knows he's getting desperate, and out of luck, too. Nobody else with an inch of dignity has this much trouble taking out a colonial for so little.

The wall above his head crumbles and a shot rings out, making Flynn wince. He makes a mad dash past the tabernacle and behind a pew. Rather deaf than dead. He can count the number of rounds left on both of his hands, and even though his aim is bang-on, his nerves don't seem to be. It's the December chill is what it is, he can't stop shaking. In need of assurance, Flynn waves a hand and makes himself partially visible.

"Alright, mate?" He says, calmly, looking around for the kill. He keeps on waving like it's all cool, still looking about. What's puzzling him is the appearance his mark is failing to make. A lovely chap, on all accounts. At least, that's what Flynn was been told. Unfortunately, the yank is supposed to be as leaky as a sieve and apparently needs silencing. A nudge, a wink, a bird in the hand. (Though, to be honest, Flynn doesn't want the bloke's life story, he just wants some easy money. And this isn't turning out to be too easy.)

The second shot that rings out comes before he can turn and a bullet strafes the back of his hand and carries right through. It hits in a staccato burst of agony and burning.

"Son of a bitch!" Flynn cries out, scuttling across the pew frantically. He looks about wildly, left and right, but can find no sign of this mystery shooter. Short on time, he takes a regretful glance at his hand and winces. At least it's only his lefty. The blood is coming out pretty steady, and he's got nothing to staunch that with. "Buggering hell."

He's about to make a mad dash for the next pew along when he hears the scrape of leather on stone and realizes at once that the yank is right behind him. Suddenly, there's something horrible cold at his skin and every instinct thrills as he feels a coil of piano wire loop around his throat. Without hesitation, Flynn's hands flu up to his collar just as the wire tightens, and it takes less than a second to bite through the skin of his hands again. He feebly tried to twist and aim his pistol but then there's a hot breath on the side of his face and a hand around his wrist. In a single, sharp twist, it goes clattering the floor, useless.

"Oh, shit-" Flynn gets out, between strangled noises, and he jerks an elbow back, knocking the assailant's arm and managing to untangle himself quick enough to dash for the gun. Small drops of blood are marking his path as his hands bleed from the bite of the wire. The yank staggers backwards as Flynn makes use of the gun, and trains it on him.

"This ain't right," The American squawks, with great desperation. He looks around, but for what? A priest, or some kind of divine intervention? Flynn's not a holy man, really, so his lack of faith is rewarded when nothing comes to the flunkey's aid. "It's a set-up!"

"That right?" Flynn gives a humourless laugh. "Tell it to priest, shitface,"

Flynn cocks the gun, and it sets the yank into hysterics. He keeps looking for some kind of escape, but he's reasonably cornered. "I'm a patsy!" The man wails.

"Lovely," Tiredly, Flynn nods. "A Cornish one?"

"A _patsy_!" The man shrieks. "Oh, Jesus!"

"My heart bleeds for you, mate," Flynn moves his wrist up a little, and then, again, a mite to the left. He knows how to get a clean, merciful shot. For whatever Flynn is, a hitman or a treasure hunter or some flunkey like this yank, he'd like to think he's not so twisted. "Let's get this over with,"

"I'll see you in hell," Something seems to explode in the yank, and he leap forward as if to shove Flynn over. A shot rings out, and Flynn waits, almost patiently, for some kind of agony, and for a poppy-red stain to bloom on the crisp of hit shirt, but nothing happens. Instead, the yank rolls off of him, to the side, his face fixed in gormlessness, all pale with death.

Flynn knows better than to question his luck. "See me in hell," He scoffs. "Yeah, we'll get lunch sometime-"

A sharp cough makes Flynn spin around. He points the gun first, and then softens when he sees the intruder. The lean, dark newcomer lets his own gun fall to his side, and he stares Flynn down without a smile. "Harry."

Flynn licks his lips and collapses onto the pew behind him, sighing. "It's Flynn, thanks," He takes in a breath. "Forgive me if I don't shake hands, yeah?"

The intruder turns down the aisle and studies Flynn, but from a distance, as if he doesn't trust he will be safe. "Really, now," he says, eyes still on Flynn's hands, a bloody pulp from the gunshot and the piano wire. "You _have_ been in the wars,"

"I appreciate the concern." Flynn drops his head back and ever-so-gently tries to wrap the wound in his shirt. "S'pose this makes us even?" He sounds hopeful, but it doesn't last too long.

"I believe you're in my debt, as it stands,"

Flynn looks at the ugly wound on his left hand and starts to feel very faint. He looks back up at Talbot, half-listening, half-looking. "You mean, I owe you a kill?"

Talbot gives him a dark smile that Flynn remembers a bit too well. "If you like,"

"I don't like,"

"Your wit slays me," Talbot speaks very slowly, almost insultingly, and then whips out a starched handkerchief so white it would make bleach blush. He walks over to Flynn and takes his left wrist, wrapping the tissue around Flynn's hand and watching it blossom into a haunting crimson. Without looking up, Talbot speaks, as he tightens the thing. "I suppose you never were very perspicacious when it came to timing,"

Flynn bites down on the inside of his cheek to refrain from whimpering, and he tries to play it off cool. "And you were never exactly mister laugh-a-minute," Truth be told, Flynn is tired, and embarrassed over nearly losing it to a yank like that and pissed more than anything that he's only getting paid in measly little amounts. It's been so long since he's had a good find. And what he wouldn't do for a drink, too. But, of course, he doesn't say any of that.

Instead, he says "You going my way, solider?"

Talbot is trying not to smile, and he's doing a pretty good job, but Flynn knows a little better, he can see the ghost of amusement and it's enough. "You might say that," Ever the mystery, Talbot doesn't want to give up the ghost that easily. A few feet away, the flunkey's body lies, stiffening. Flynn can't remember who he needs to speak to about having that body moved to make it looks like he was doing the breaststroke, face-down in the Thames.

Yawning, Flynn stands up, shakily. "I think I'll catch a cab back to Finchley, if you don't mind," He does want to get home, but it's something else, too. Testing the waters. Flynn doesn't usually get his ass saved without a lifetime of favours to show for it.

As if on cue, Talbot speaks to stop him. "Harry." And that's enough to make Flynn stop or anybody. "You're a gentleman in the business of marksmanship," Whatever clever remark Flynn has, the moment is snatched before he can deliver the punchline. "Of course, I use the term gentleman rather loosely,"

"You're a charmer," Flynn assures him.

"I was sent to find a sniper. And I was told-…" Talbot trails off, taking in a breath and requiring a minute to speak, as if it pains him to admit that Flynn might be good at anything. Years haven't changed the dynamic there, then. "I was told you are supposed to be rather good."

"What makes you think I'll work for you, Tosspot?" He scoffs.

Talbot straightens, and gives him this cold glance. "I have a gun,"

"You're all heart, mate," Flynn clicks his tongue. It's in the way Talbot is twitching his hands, as if somehow eager to shoot, that reminds Flynn that now is probably not the best time to wind anybody up. "And this would make us even?"

"It would," Talbot gets out, a bit begrudgingly.

"Well then," He laughs, and then settles down because his hand is really throbbing now. "I can hardly refuse," But, just to be difficult, he holds up a hand. "To be clear, I will be getting paid for this?" Talbot says nothing, for a minute. "Look, the rewards of sniping are rarely spiritual. A bird in the hand-…"

"I'm sure we can come to some agreement," Talbot says, again, slowly, and he begins to walk down the aisle of pews. Flynn sits, for a minute, under the scrutiny of a rather large oak crucifix. It isn't easy for him to think properly when Jesus is staring him down like that. And he's really only just getting his breath back. Flynn needs a long sleep, a fried breakfast, and a drink strong enough to wash away this dishwater December they said was lemonade. Outside, it's snowing. He is frozen in thought until a voice calls from the back of the church.

"Sapphire martini with no olives." It seems irrelevant. Flynn turns around, seeing the less detailed figure of Talbot standing by the door. "I assume that's still what you order."

Flynn smiles, more to himself than to anybody else. "No such thing as a free drink, mate,"

"I'll put it in your tab," Talbot says, and he disappears into the snowstorm without a word. Flynn looks at the dead yank, still dead stiff on the floor, and then at the snow outside and the shrinking form of Talbot. He stands up, once again shaky, and turns.

Well, he'd rather not wait around for the corpse to start stinking.


End file.
